By Love and Law. The story of an honourable woman

Front matter

VOL. I. THE STORY OF AN HONOURABLE WOMAN BY LIZZIE ALLDRIDGE ' Get leave to work ' — Mrs E. B. Browning IN THREE VOLUMES VOL. I. LONDON SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE 1877 [A II rights rgstrved] CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. CHAPTER PAGE I. Great Turner Street . . . . i II. A School of High Art 13 III. Lois at Home 31 IV. The Maltby Position 48 V. Her First Day's Work .... 65 VI. She begins to see 80 VII. A Block on her Road .... 95 VIII. In the Twilight 112 IX. 'Get leave to Work' .... 125 X. Towards the Mark 137 XI. 'All the Rivers run into the Sea; yet the Sea is not Full' . . . .148 XII. Mrs. Haslehurst and her A'iews . . CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. vi CHAPTER page XIII. Bears among Doves 163 XIV. The Augustan Age at Haslehurst's . 176 XV. Lois tries for the Academy . . .187 XVI.

Mr. Keeper's Note 207 XVII. Stephen Maltby comes Home . . 223 XVIII. Stephen's Dilemma 239 XIX. Enter Frank Halstead .... 25S XX. Frank Halstead's Feelings . . . 277 XXI. How Frank Halstead went to Wrigglemarsh

Chapter I. Great Turner Street

It was by an irresistible appeal to the finer feelings of the Society that an artistic member of the Venerable Earth-worms set at rest for ever the vexed question that had threatened to destroy the corporate existence of that illustrious body. The question had been (for there were archæologists in the Society) whether, in the case of Great Turner Street, the adjective ' Great ' qualified the common noun ' Street,' or, as a delicate tribute to departed genius, the proper noun ' Turner.' VOL. I. B The words of the young artist are pre served in the archives of that society whose life they, in all probability, saved. He had listened, he said, while they had pelted each other with pitiful prose ; while they had flung fictitious facts and common place crudities and hard literalisms at each others' heads ; and he had asked himself had all true feelingfor art, all reverence for the power and poetry of associated ideas, passed away for ever ? ' Is it,' he continued, ' need ful for me to know, as a mere fact, that Turner was actually connected with this street in the same poor sense in which any ordinary dweller or even ground landlord might have been, before I can feel justified in saying that the " Great " alludes to that gigantic genius ?

Sir ! ' and he turned to the chair, ' Sir ! I am an artist ! ' (Hear ! hear ! and loud cheers.) ' And day by day, as I leave the gay and gaudy glare of yonder world-famous highway' (a leading West-End thoroughfare) ' for Great Turner Street, I am struck, not only with the beautiful and pathetic suggestiveness of its name, but of that name's marvellous and touching truthful ness ; for in the soft and delicate yellow mist that at most times shrouds our street I see an aspect of nature well beloved by Turner ; and in the rare and rosy radiance of its morning sky, in the glory and mystery of its gold and scarlet sunsets, in ten thousand other peculiar atmospheric effects ; in its gloom and in its brightness ; in its order and its litter, I recognise the depth, the intensity of its Turneresqueness.' So ended the controversy ; but still it must be admitted that the eloquent Earth worm's view is, after all, to a large extent subjective, if not, as some indeed yet affirm, purely subjective ; for to the common passer by that street is but a common-looking road, bounded by such demure and unobtrusive houses as one may see by the hundred in the B neighbourhood of Gower Street and Fitzroy Square, with the same long uncurtained first-floor windows, the same half-closed shutters, telling of studios and artists.

Many a brother of the brush is to be found there ; but many another road shares that honour. It is not Art so much as Mystery that has made Great Turner Street what it is — a riddle, an enigma, a sphinx, un solved indeed by the prosaic, but loved and revered by the mystic, across whose placid face flits a serene smile as the man of the world asks him with a sneer : ' Can any sane thing come out of Great Turner Street ? ' or suggests that ' William Blake Street ' would have been a far more appropriate name. Every new idea preposterously in advance of its age, or many centuries behind it, finds its home in Great Turner Street. Does a natural philosopher discover that this earth is doomed to fall a prey to the sun at the end of an uncomfortable short period ? He at once hires a room in Great Turner Street, and gives illustrated lectures.

If a religious reformer feels called upon to advocate the re-establishment of Druidism as the only remedy for the many evils that afflict this age, he takes a Hall in Great Turner Street, gathers a society, organises a cultus, and — gives lectures. Is an economist eager to abolish Nature and to re-commence molecular evolution on entirely new principles ? He also retires to Great Turner Street, exhibits a window-full of incomprehensible diagrams and — gives lectures. Spiritualism of every form finds the con genial habitat in this region of mist. Dreamers of dreams, seers of visions, dwellers on the threshold of the spirit-world are in most of its houses. They meet in its halls ; their influence seems to permeate its very atmosphere. Whatever may be said or done in this strange neighbourhood, no one is ever sur prised at it, because no one thinks of expect ing its inhabitants to act in any way like ordinary mortals, or — to use a local term — like ' conventional humanity ; ' and yet it is an indisputable fact, that in few streets of the size is more good hard work done in the course of the year than in Great Turner Street.

It has been already hinted that this dim street turns out of a leading West-End high road. Early one afternoon, now some years ago, two ladies were looking in at a famous milliner's window a few yards west of Great Turner Street. It was a fine day in the beginning of April. The pathways were crowded with busy people. By every lamp-post stood a flower-girl with a basket of violets and daffodils. Before every door carriages were in waiting, horses impatiently pawing the ground and jingling their bit chains, while their fair owners were leisurely shopping and the servants lounging about the entrances. The milliner's shop was gay with fresh spring bonnets, and many were the criticisms of the little groups who paused to inspect them ; but the two ladies with whom alone we have to do looked in at the window and scarcely saw what was there.

The elder lady had stopped to collect her thoughts and courage ; the younger one was evidently slightly impatient at her so doing. The elder lady was Mrs. Maltby, a woman with a kindly but resolute face, on which both determination and irresolution were at that moment expressed. In fact, nothing but her deep maternal love would have nerved her to attempt to take the step she had resolved upon ; and now that the decisive moment had almost come, that very same maternal love made her doubt whether that step should be taken. The girl by her side was her third daughter Lois, and Lois was the cause of her anxiety. Lois was quite a slender young slip of a girl, scarcely grown up, who had only re cently attained the dignity of long dresses. She had a tall, slight figure, merely pretty as yet, but with the promise of a beautiful and gracious womanliness to come.

She looked worried just the least in the world and rather tired ; but in spite of the little cloud upon it, her face was as fresh as the daffodils the flower-girls were selling had been at five o'clock that morning. The fresh face had a sweet mouth, pout ing like a baby's, and for the moment a little depressed at the corners ; it had also two quick grey-brown eyes, quick but yet soft, still childish in expression, but with a good deal of earnest thought as well as mirth fulness in them, very pleasant eyes to look at. In those days ' heads were worn small ; ' Lois Maltby had no difficulty in following fashion in this particular, for, in spite of considerable breadth of brow, a neater or more compact little head than hers, or richer dusky brown hair than that plaited up under her black velvet hat, it would have been difficult to find anywhere. ' Lois, have you quite made up your mind ? ' Mrs. Maltby presently asked in an anxious tone. ' Mamma, you know I have,' replied the girl in a low and strangely sweet voice, a voice simple and girlish, but in which tears and laughter seemed curiously mingled. ' Why do you ask me so many times, mamma ? ' ' I don't like the idea of your going to Great Turner Street!' exclaimed Mrs. Maltby, pausing (for they had walked on slowly for a few steps), and looking more decided in her dislike to that mysterious region, and less decided in her resolve to penetrate it. ' It can't hurt us,' said Lois. ' We had better go on, mamma ; people will be noticing us,' and in silence they walked to the turning, when they again stopped.

Mrs. Maltby's eye caught sight of the inauspicious name, Great Turner Street, in hard, official paint, and as she read the words she hated them ; for they were to her the representatives of all that was opposed to her sense of social orthodoxy, of all that was vague, wild, mystic, doubtful. ' Lois, I shall decide upon nothing to day,' said Mrs. Maltby, sternly, with an angry glance at the offending letters. ' Very well, mamma,' returned Lois with resignation. ' Only pray do let us go on.' Once more Mrs. Maltby lifted up her eyes to the name, and in another moment they were both in Great Turner Street. On that fair spring day the street was looking even more Turneresque than usual, but Mrs. Maltby perceived it not. The delicate mist, so beautiful to the enthusiastic Earthworm, had no charms for her ; indeed, it made her shiver.

Presently the mother and daughter stopped. ' This must be the house,' said Lois. ' It's the right number.' And they went up a few broad, stone steps. ' It looks a respectable house,' observed Mrs. Maltby, as she cast a severely scrutinis ing glance up and down it. ' Of course it is,' returned Lois. ' Shall I ring the school bell or the Visitors', mamma ? ' ' Visitors'. Do look if my bonnet is straight ; ' for the bonnet was always Mrs. Maltby's one weak point and mental disturb ance strangely affected it. ' Perfectly. Am I all right too ? ' ' Yes. You are sure now, Lois, you have made up your mind ? ' but the door was opened before Lois could reply.

Chapter II

A SCHOOL OF HIGH ART. The door was opened by a respectable-looking woman in a freshly starched print dress, a plain linen collar, white muslin apron, and a cap upon which the word ' housekeeper ' was legibly written. Her appearance was reassuring; there was a neatness about her attire and a kind liness about her face that at once gained a certain amount of confidence. ' Is Mr. Wolston at home?' asked Mrs. Maltby. ' Yes, ma'am, he is in the school,' returned Mrs. Rouse, the housekeeper. ' A' could I see him ? ' said Mrs. Maltby, with some hesitation. ' Certainly, ma'am. Would you please step this way ? ' ' Won't you take my card ? ' said Mrs. Maltby, as she entered the hall, followed by Lois. Mrs. Rouse, took it and then shut the door. Mrs. Maltby felt almost frightened when, with the door closed and flight out of the question, she found herself in a large hall that looked gloomy and weird enough to make a less nervous person uncomfortable.

Mysterious forms of great antique statues and busts loomed upon the strangers from out of ghostly corners ; crowds of curious heads (on canvas) peered at them from the walls of the broad staircase, and the whole was shrouded by foggy twilight that made the hall itself look cavernous, and every thing in it unreal and spectral. The artistic world had hitherto been to Mrs. Maltby as absolutely an unknown sphere as the red planet Mars. Her fancy had always peopled it with disreputable inhabitants — half-lunatic, half-dissipated, and this uncanny entrance was by no means calculated to remove her preconceived notions ; therefore instead of following Mrs. Rouse she paused and said : ' Perhaps Mr. Wolston is engaged ? ' Now Mrs. Rouse was in her way an ex perienced woman, and at once understood the feeling that had prompted the question, so she turned round affably and began a quiet little conversation about the school and its master, thereby allowing her visitors time to grow more familiar with the misty half light and less afraid of the busts and statues. ' Then you are sure we shall not be disturbing Mr. Wolston ? ' Mrs. Maltby ventured to ask after the lapse of a few minutes. ' Not in the least, ma'am,' replied that excellent woman, and drawing aside a baize curtain that once had been green but was now of a strictly neutral tone, she led the way into an ante-room even darker and more mysterious than the hall, in which the ' pro perties ' of the establishment reposed when not at work.

Mrs. Maltby and Lois followed the housekeeper through the dimness, picking their way carefully among a coil of rope and a mass of fishing nets, and found they were advancing to the front of a sort of stage that looked on to a long gallery with a top-light through which the spring sunshine was streaming. Among the fishing nets a hand some young woman in the picturesque cos tume of a Bretonne peasant was sitting, intent upon taking up a dropped stitch with an imaginary needle. Mrs. Rouse, descending into the gallery by a few steps, went up to a tall and power ful man, very like a portrait by Rembrandt, who was standing painting by an easel near the left-hand corner of the stage, and gave him Mrs. Maltby's card. He glanced at the name, laid the card on his easel tray, put the long clay pipe he had been smoking down by the side of it, and bowed gravely but very slightly to the two ladies.

Mrs. Maltby was unmistakably nervous. For the first time in her life she was called upon to face a real, living artist, an artist with all the paraphernalia of his art about him, and who himself looked more like some old, world-famous Flemish portrait endued with life than a nineteenth century man. He made no attempt at beginning the conversation himself, so Mrs. Maltby was driven to introduce the object of her visit. ' Mr. Wolston, I presume ? ' she com menced. ' I believe that is my name,' he answered in a fine basso profondo, and he stepped to his picture and flicked in a high light. Mrs. Maltby had made arrangements with many a vol. 1. c Lady Principal, and had even, in her day, sought bravely for a reduction of terms, but never before had she felt such a difficulty in stating a case : ' My daughter here,' indicating Lois, ' is very fond of drawing.' 'Ah!

Indeed!' said the artist, as if it were an observation he had heard many times before, and as he spoke he returned the brush he was using to his sheaf and took another one. ' We think she shows some talent,' continued Mrs. Maltby, returning to the assault. ' Yes,' observed Mr. Wolston, in a per fectly level tone that might mean anything, touching a plait in the ruff of his Elizabethan Courtier with flake white with the word. ' Do you think that talent can be acquired or must it be natural ? ' asked Mrs. Maltby, rushing into the question in sheer despera tion. ' That opens a very wide field for discussion,' replied Mr. Wolston quietly. Then suddenly altering his voice and manner he said quickly and decidedly, ' But if you refer to learning how to draw, that is merely mechanical up to a certain point, anyone of average intellect can do that, with the necessary application.' ' We want her to learn drawing and painting, certainly,' returned Mrs. Maltby humbly, ' but we wish her to — that is, we should like her to be able to send pictures to Exhibitions.

There is a lady in our neighbourhood who sends pictures to Exhibitions, and sells them too sometimes.' ' Anyone can send pictures to Exhibi tions,' said Mr. Wolston drily. ' There is not the slightest difficulty about that.' ' Of course my daughter has had drawing lessons at school, and Major Maltby has given her a little instruction at home. She has just finished this,' and producing a small c scroll of drawing paper, she unrolled it and handed it to Mr. Wolston, nervously, but yet with a lingering hope that the master might detect the latent talent that she herself could see in it so plainly. ' She did it quite by herself. Her father and I think it — hem — clever,' and with that last word Mrs. Maltby's voice sank almost to a whisper. It was a water colour copy of a print of a dog's head.

Mr. Wolston took it, gave it half a glance, rolled it up, and returned it without a remark. Lois blushed deeply, and Mrs. Maltby's belief in her daughter's talent evaporated. ' Perhaps if you were to walk round the gallery you would gain a clearer insight into our manner of working,' suggested Mr. Wolston. ' If I might do so without intruding ? ' said Mrs. Maltby. ' But our presence might be an interruption.' ' Not in the slightest ; we are quite used to visitors and to criticism. Pray stay as long as you like.' Gladly availing themselves of this per mission, Mrs. Maltby and her daughter stepped noiselessly about the gallery, and now and then ventured to put a few ques tions to the ladies who were at work there, some of whom were drawing from the Antique and others painting from the Bretonne girl.

Presently they returned to the Master. ' Thank you very much,' said Mrs. Maltby. ' May I ask your terms ? ' ' I never make business arrangements,' replied Mr. Wolston. ' My housekeeper can tell you everything of that kind.' ' Now, would you mind giving me some idea of the time it takes to make an artist ? ' asked Mrs. Maltby with a peculiarly winning smile, which was one of the relics of her youthful beauty that she still retained. 'Some souls,' replied Mr. Wolston very gravely, ' may attain Art at the end of a few centuries, others perhaps never. We cannot tell ; we are not certain if the angels know.' Mrs. Maltby said no more ; she remem bered to have heard the proverb : ' Can any sane thing come out of Great Turner Street ?' But the artist's words awakened a strangely pleasant feeling of vastness and mystery in the mind of Lois, although she entirely failed to grasp his meaning. ' If you will allow me I will call again,' said Mrs. Maltby. 'You will always find me here, and I shall be glad to give you any information I may possess,' said Mr. Wolston. ' Then good morning,' said Mrs. Maltby with her gracious smile. 'Good morning,' returned the painter, laying down his brush. ' Let me show you the way.' ' No, pray do not leave your work,' said Mrs. Maltby courteously ; and Mr. Wolston, taking her at her word, went back to his easel.

The visitors reascended the steps, passed safely by the fisher-woman and her nets, and found the housekeeper waiting for them in a dark corner. But just as they were about to speak to her they both started back in alarm, for by the side of her light dress stood, or rather hung, a skeleton, rendered more than usually ghastly by the black cloth that was flung around him and by the grotesquely dancing attitude in which some fanciful student had arrayed him. The housekeeper smiled blandly : ' It's only the skeleton, ma'am,' she said gently. ' One need have pretty firm nerves to live in a place like this,' said Mrs. Maltby, recovering herself. ' You soon get used to it. Would you please to walk upstairs ? ' So they went upstairs under the glaring eyes of the innumerable studies of heads that covered the walls — Ophelias, Iagos, Girls of all nations, Mary Queen of Scotses, — warriors, priests, brigands, all more or less hideous — as terrible a collection of very early works by students who have since met with every variety of fate — who have since died of starvation, risen to wealth or found refuge in other than artistic professions — as was to be met with anywhere out of Soho.

But at the top of the stairs was a neat little sitting-room of an ordinary and civilised appearance. Chintz-covered chairs and sofas such as you might see anywhere and a com monplace table covered with a red cloth and books went far towards giving the room a home-like aspect ; while a piano told that even here music was not an impossibility. Indeed, in this little sanctum it was only the unfinished studies that, overflowing the walls of the stairs, had crowded in even here that compelled one to remember that that room was in Great Turner Street at all. Free from the presence of that living Old Master in his rusty gabardine and his grizzly beard, Mrs. Maltby felt more at home, and talked to the housekeeper about terms with out any hesitation. The terms were lower than she had anticipated, but yet she hesitated.

Mrs. Rouse attempted no persuasion ; she only talked quietly about the school, and mentioned the names of some of the ladies who studied there. Mrs. Maltby did not take the proffered arm-chair ; both she and Lois stood by the table, and Mrs. Maltby took up the books that lay there one by one ; some of them were hardly of the kind she had been accus tomed to see lying about. The first she opened was a volume of Swedenborg ; the second, the Life of William Blake, poet, painter, mystic; the third she closed at once and kept under her hand, that Lois mieht not see it ; then there were lee tures to the Young Men's Christian Associa tion, sundry sermons by preachers of well known heterodoxy, a few foreign novels, and Ruskin's ' Stones of Vienna.' ' This is no place for my Lois,' she said, mentally. ' I am afraid I cannot decide to day,' she said aloud, with a very troubled expression. ' Oh, mamma, I should like it so much ! ' said Lois, with a sudden flush. ' Not to-day,' repeated Mrs. Maltby. ' Very well, ma'am,' acquiesced the housekeeper. ' But if you liked to sit with the young lady or call for her, you could do so.

You can do just what you think best here.' ' Ah ! That alters the question. Still — Yes, indeed, Lois, I must not decide to-day. You shall see me again soon, Mrs. Rouse, and then — I hope.' She turned to leave, half sorry that she could not make up her mind there and then. But when they reached the top of the stairs a sight met her that instantly made her say to herself indignantly : ' No. This cannot be the place for my Lois.' A lad in a white apron was coming up the stairs, carrying on a tray a half-quartern loaf, a piece of cheese, and a large pewter pot, across which were two long clay pipes. Mrs. Maltby's countenance fell ; she gathered her skirts together and stepped aside to allow the lad to pass. He stopped before a curtain. ' It is only' the boy from the Jolly Pre raphaelites, with a little light refreshment for the gentlemen in the Life,' remarked the housekeeper calmly. ' A What gentlemen ? ' asked Mrs. Maltby, looking quite aghast ; for the term ' Life ' had suggested to her the most hideous ideas. ' The gentlemen students.

They work upstairs when the ladies are here. Mr. Wolston would be quite shocked at their working together, although there's many that wish it.' ' Very strange people,' said Mrs. Maltby, significantly. ' Are you quite sure the gentlemen never go into the gallery while the ladies are there ? ' ' Oh, never, never ! ' exclaimed the housekeeper emphatically. ' They dursn't do it upon no consideration. Mr. Wolston is so very particular.' They were in the hall again by this time. The bell was rung, the housekeeper opened the door, a young man came in, slightly raised his hat, and sprang upstairs. ' Who is that ? ' Mrs. Maltby asked, adding to herself, ' I rather like the look of him.' ' It's one of the students, Mr. Lochrain, and very nice and kind he is too, poor young man ! ' 'Why "poor"? But I suppose all art students are poor.' ' Oh no, not all.

There's a deal of difference. I called Mr. Lochrain " poor " be cause he has just lost his wife, and a sweet, pretty little creature she was, and it's cut him up awful.' ' He looks young to be a widower,' said Mrs. Maltby, softening her voice a little. 1 He's about six-and-twenty. He hasn't been here long, and that's too old to study easily. It's hard work, if they don't begin young. ' Then what do you think is the best age to begin ? ' ' Well, ma'am, of course I don't know, but I should say, judging from what I've seen here, it's about best for them to begin as soon as they can.' After hearing which lucid explanation of the case, Mrs. Maltby and her daughter left the house, and found themselves once more in Great Turner Street.

Chapter III. Lois At Home

' Oh, mamma, what a delicious place ! ' was the girl's first exclamation when they were fairly out of the house. ' I don't see the deliciousness of it myself,' replied the mother, smiling at her child's enthusiasm, ' unless you can call dust and dirt delicious. The term " grubby " would suit it better, I think' ' But the sisherwoman and her lovely cap, mamma ! ' ' Mr. Wolston evidently thinks you have no talent. He hardly deigned to look at your dog's head.' ' Of course he saw I knew nothing. I've never learned properly. I've found that out already. But I should soon get on there, and oh ! how much I should enjoy it.' ' Well, dear child, I don't say you shall not go, but really this seems scarcely the place for you. I don't know what to think of it.' And Mrs. Maltby's eyes scanned every person and thing she met with an anxious scrutiny. ' Darling, I think we must indulge in a cab to the station, and then we shall just catch the five o'clock train,' she said, when they had again reached the main thorough fare. ' A Hansom, mamma ! ' exclaimed Lois eagerly. ' I love a Hansom ! ' ' Lois, I am surprised at you,' said Mrs. Maltby, in a tone that would have been severe if it could have been ; ' Great Turner Street is infecting you already.' And she took a four-wheeler.

In those days public spirit was against the use of Hansoms by ladies. Happily, public opinion is progressive. Twenty minutes in the cab, half-an-hour in the train, and the two alighted at Coombs Station. ' Take my arm, mamma, and let me help you up the hill.' Mrs. Maltby took her daughter's arm. She would willingly have taken another cab, but she had already spent more than she had intended in travelling expenses. The hill was only a slightly ascending road — a country road it might almost have been called, for there were fields on each side of it ; not flat, smooth meadows, but abruptly broken ground that looked like miniature mountains and valleys, and made you think you were much further from town than you were. At the top of the hill stood an old red brick, square-towered church, nearly opposite which was a fine manorial residence, dating, like the church, from the time of James I. VOL. I. D Mrs. Maltby and her daughter passed the great house and along by the park wall.

At the end of the wall there was a smaller house, standing back a little from the road, in front of which was a short semicircular carriage drive and a crowd of lilacs, now freshly decked in their tender young, brown tipped, pale green leaves. This was the Maltby home. ' Where are they ? ' was Lois's first eager inquiry as the door was opened. It is needless to state that ' they ' meant ' the girls.' ' Upstairs, miss ; the dressing-bell have rung.' So upstairs Lois flew. ' Girls ! girls ! I've come home !' she cried, rushing into the room where she knew she would find a general assembly of her sisters. That room was the private apartment of Laura, the eldest ; but Laura was good tempered and sociable, and hated to be alone. The other girls were like-minded ; so dressing was generally carried on in Laura's room, and great and mighty was the talking and the running about in consequence.